


Cities

by Pigeon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London is not Liverpool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cities

  
London is not Liverpool.

London is not Liverpool and neither Southerner nor Northerner alike would claim it was.

But there are similarities.

Debris.

Rubble.

Burnt out shells of buildings that children use as playgrounds.

In both cities they remember the war, and rationing, and the sound and destruction of the air raids. They can remember doodlebugs. Remember blood and telegrams.

And in both cities The Beatles are starting to be recognised.

The screams haven't started yet.

Girls aren't crying and fainting.

But strangers do pause them on the street occasionally and ask for autographs. In pubs drinks are bought for them, and offers of a bed and a warm body for the night roll in faster than they ever have before.

They are new.

They are young, and fresh, and up-and-coming.

They are going to be the biggest fucking band in history.

In the hotel suite, with its two bedrooms, lounge, and bathroom complete with complementary bubble bath and shower cap; John can't sleep.

He steps over to the window and pulls back the curtain. The traffic stopped hours ago and the street is empty. His breath fogs up the glass and he considers writing rude phrases or drawing dirty pictures. Maybe he'll shock the maid come morning.

He turns to look a George in the other bed asleep.

George always sleeps well.

George never has bad dreams or tosses and turns or sweats and calls out in the night.

George stays still and warm and peaceful.

John perches himself on the edge of George's bed, and pushes the hair back from George's forehead.

George doesn't stir.

John can remember nights in Hamburg. Nights when Stu was off with Astrid, and Paul had picked up a bird for the night, and Pete was… well somewhere. And it was just him and George.

John smiles and shakes George's shoulder.

"Eh?" George's voice is sleep fogged, his eyes opening blearily.

"Can't sleep."

"Johnny?" George blinks up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." John flicks on the bedside lamp and laughs as George throws up an arm to protect his eyes. "I can't sleep."

"'Kay. What time… never mind." George frowns, rubbing the sleep from his face. He looks at John, at John's face and too bright eyes. "D'ya want to get in?" he pulls back the covers slightly, shifting over to make more room.

"Nah, y'alright. I want to go for a walk."

"Huh?"

"Come on, son, let's go for a walk."

George shakes his head but clambers out of bed, pulling on the clothes John throws at him.

The air outside is sharp, cutting into the chest, breath exhaled in visible little puffs.

London is not Liverpool.

They don't know their way around. Don't know how to get from one district to another, and have no friends they can visit.

London is not Liverpool, and they are far from home.

George follows John's lead.

John follows his own feet, and wherever they take him.

"D'you ever remember your dreams?" John kicks at a bag of spilt chips, and hunches his shoulders further against the cold.

"Sometimes," George stifles a yawn. "Not always."

John nods. "Do they make sense?"

George shoots him a quick smile. "They're not meant to, are they?"

A stray dog runs across the road up ahead, sniffing at lampposts. It pauses, staring at them for a moment, then barks once and runs off.

George pulls his collar up tighter about his neck. "Did you tonight? Have a dream?"

John shrugs.

George bites at his lip, and grabs John's hand.

"You're a soft bastard, ain't ya." John doesn't let go.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Our secret."

They turn onto an old towpath alongside a canal.

"Fucking dark here." John feels his way along slowly.

"It's the middle of the night, Johnny."

"You're funny, you know that?"

"I try."

John laughs. "Cheeky sod."

In Hamburg when John couldn't sleep, and it was dark, and it was just him and George, he'd crawl in beside him.

In Hamburg there were nights when George didn't wake, and in the morning would be surprised to find another body twisted up with his own.

In Hamburg there were also nights when George did wake, when it was dark, and John couldn't sleep, and it was just them two, shivering together in the same bed.

In Hamburg there were sometimes kisses.

And there were sometimes touches.

And in the build up of sweat and gasps when words were forgotten, John wasn't afraid of his dreams.

Alongside the canal John lights two cigarettes, passing one to George.

"Ta," George inhales deeply. He leans back against an old wall, the mortar dry and crumbling away, moss and lichens latched onto the old brickwork. "Rang Mam today. She asked after you."

"Yeah?"

"She always asks after you."

"Bet she asked if we was feeding you right an' all."

George smiles, "'Course."

"Asking after her blessed son. I mean he mustn't be lead astray now." His voice rose, taking on a high, quavering feminine tone, "Poor, innocent little Georgie, no more than a child when he fell in with that crowd…"

"John…"

"Should have stayed here and been an ease to his mother's heart, never mind all that fiddling on a guitar, well it's not music is it, just noise. Should have taken his exams, stayed in Liverpool, gotten a proper job, gone on the dole, lived on the fucking never-never…"

"John!"

"Well," John kicks a pebble into the canal.

"Don't."

"Yeah."

"Mam's not like that."

"I know." He leans on the wall beside George, "I like your Mam. Remember when we used to go 'round yours for practise and she'd give us that little tot of whiskey?"

George nods.

"Oh, don't be like that, Georgie." John ruffles his hair. "You know what I'm like."

"Yeah, I do." George lights another ciggie. "And you're a right bastard."

"But you love me anyway, oh, say you do," John flutters his eyelashes at him.

"Bastard."

"Good enough for me," he declares, and kisses George on the cheek.

London is not Liverpool, but this is ages old irrespective of geography.

George shuts his eyes and continues to smoke. It will be dawn soon, and he's not even sure if he remembers the way back to the hotel.

In Hamburg things went unspoken, and if the others knew they never said.

In Liverpool, before and after, there are families and mates, and moments more stolen than simply snatched.

And in London?

In London it is the middle of the night, and they are lost.

George takes one long last drag before grinding the stub out under his boot-heel. "Had enough of a walk?"

John looks at him.

"John? You ready to go back now?"

"No," John grins at him. "Not ready yet." He leans forward, one hand finding George's shoulder.

As if he'll have to hold him there.

And that has never been the case.

Not in Hamburg or Liverpool, and not now in London.

The touch of lips is soft at first. At first it's just lips and a soft pressure and slight pauses as they draw back before the kiss re-establishes itself.

Next it's all teeth clashing and hunger and grips tightening on clothes.

And George has always given as good as he's got.

And John has learnt not to hide.

And this is London, and damn if it doesn't feel like Liverpool.

And this is London, and damn but it feels as good as Hamburg, when it was all new and fresh and only a little bit desperate.

The night is cold and clothes are only half opened.

John's hands are sure and each little callous only adds to sensation.

George's mouth is hot and contrasts with the chill night.

It will be dawn soon, but the sky has yet to lighten, and they reach their peak in the darkness.

George touches John's hair, while John kisses the length of his throat.

The first dull whine of a milk float can be heard, and the sparrows, blackbirds, pigeons have all awoken.

George thinks about asking John about his dream again, but knows that even in this soft sated moment John won't answer, and pulls him in for another kiss instead. "This is fucking insane."

"I don't think sanity was ever our forte like, son."

George smiles, "I weren't complaining."

John rolls his shoulders and busies himself with re-arranging their clothing. He winks at George, "Time to go back."

"Yeah."

"Same time tomorrow?"

George whacks John's arm, but laughs, and they retrace their steps.

It takes hours to find the hotel.

London is a maze of streets and alleys.

It takes hours to find the hotel and even then they arrive long before breakfast is due to be served.

John smiles at the night manager and orders eggs and toast. They sit in the deserted restaurant and watch the thin sunlight slowly flood the windows.

George sips at orange juice and fights back a yawn.

"Sleepy head. You might have time for a couple of hours kip, 'fore we have to leave."

George shakes his head, "'S'all right, I'll cope."

London is not Liverpool.

But no one ever said it had to be.


End file.
